


The Spoils of War

by jhoom



Category: Supernatural
Genre: God!Cas, God!dean, M/M, ancient!au, god!sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 20:52:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14881005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jhoom/pseuds/jhoom
Summary: Dean enjoys being a prominent God of War… up until another god starts to usurp his authority.





	The Spoils of War

**Author's Note:**

> i keep telling myself "no more challenges!!!" and then one will come around that i can't pass up. when sign ups for the [dean/cas reverse bang](https://deancasreversebang.tumblr.com).... i mean how could i pass that up lol? so this is my entry for the 2018 dean/cas reverse bang. i had the opportunity to work with a great artist [theaeronaut](https://theaeronaut.tumblr.com) and write about a time period that i LOVE - hope you guys like it :)
> 
> special thanks of course to my beta reader [blue-reveries](http://blue-reveries.tumblr.com) and if y'all wanna talk destiel or spn in general, come visit me on tumblr [@jhoomwrites](http://jhoomwrites.tumblr.com) :)

Dean knows Castiel from when they were both very young. All godlings grow up together, attended by the elder gods of children, family, and the hearth. They play and run and learn, until such time as they are old enough to follow their own path to more specific worldly pursuits.

From that time, Dean remembers little. The details are all vague, and what little he sees in his mind’s eye are broad strokes. He played with the other godlings and explored that enclosed garden at the heart of the gods’ realm. He made many friends, though few kept his attention for long. To this day, Dean can name but few of them, can recall none of the games or jokes they’d once shared and treasured.

And still, he remembers Castiel.

He always thought the other boy shy, even tempered, and though smart, Dean perceived him as somewhat boring. While Dean was out climbing trees, wrestling, or playing at swords and spears, Castiel was busy with puzzles and games of memory. The two boys were fond enough of the other’s company that they would sometimes indulge the other in their favorite pursuits, but as they grew older, Dean found himself less inclined to spend his days sitting still. Castiel too seemed to weary of Dean’s need to always be moving, and opted to spend his days in quiet reflection.

By the time it came for them to leave the garden of their youth and start apprenticeships with older gods, Dean knew felt sure he was unlikely to see much of Castiel. Their childhood friendship would remain just that; Castiel would forever be another god that Dean admired and maybe even found handsome, but that is all. Dean was destined to be a great war god, after all, and Castiel was going to be… well, Dean never did know _that_ , but whatever it was, it was bound to be very different.

Over time, Dean’s memories faded and he all but forgot the other god with the lively blue eyes and kind smile.

Almost, but not quite.

~ ~ ~

Dean is grateful to be paired with elder gods skilled in the art of battle. One by one, they train him in all manner of weapons and warcraft. His body, already blessed with godly strength and stamina, becomes stronger, faster, hardened by mock battles. He studies hard and trains until he stumbles home exhausted but sated in a way that only a well fought battle leaves him.

Soon his efforts are rewarded: Bobby brings him to his first human battle.

It’s a mere scuffle between warring tribes, but it invigorates Dean. He’s heard of the world of men, of their battles as eternal as the gods’, though with a far higher cost for failure. If Dean falls on the battlefield he trains on, his kin getting the better of him, he is whisked away to the great feast hall where food, drink, and merriment heal all that ails him, ready to begin anew the next day.

If a human should fall in battle, he finds himself trapped in the land of the dead, his journey over and his life behind him.

The stakes are… intoxicating.

By Bobby’s leave, Dean joins the fray. He cares not what side he fights for, picks one at random, and lends the strength of his blade to the cause. His temporary comrades fall on either side, while others are emboldened by the god’s favor. It is so much more than Dean ever imagined such a moment to be, and he knows he has chosen his domain well.

The battle is won, sacrifices are made in his honor, and already his ears ring with prayers. His first ever, but by no means his last.

“You did well, boy.” Bobby claps him on the back. “You’ve made a name for yourself among these people. It will spread, and so will your chance for battle and glory.”

Dean is pleased, and says as much to his brother when their paths next cross.

“I know very well of your victory,” Sam says with an indulgent smile. “Were it not written on your face, I’ve heard tell of it already.”

Dean’s shoulders sag in disappointed hopes. He’d wanted to relive every gritty detail as he recounted all to his brother, but apparently he’s too late. “Did Bobby tell you?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “What is my realm?”

Unlike Dean, who had always longed to fight, Sam had chosen a very different path. The plight of mortals intrigued him, and after trying many apprenticeships, he settled in the Land of the Dead. He helps ease the burdens of those who have died, whether in battle or from sickness, by childbirth or from old age. All go there, all are welcome, and Sam is the one who welcomes them.

But that has no bearing on Dean’s current annoyance, unless…

“They spoke of me?” he asks, his foul mood evaporating in the wake of his possible notoriety.

“They did,” Sam confirms. “A mighty godling warrior with glowing green eyes and a body unmarred by battle scars. I thought it might be you and said as much. They were in awe of you, and of me for being your brother.

Dean preens at the praise. The warriors he’d helped kill were but backwater tribesfolk whose praise was easily earned. Still, it’s the first such occasion Dean has to hear such things, and it makes him eager for more. More fights and bloody victory, more lives lost in tribute to a rising god.

Then his mind goes to greater things. Not clans bickering in some lonely woods, but kings and generals with whole armies at their command to rise or fall at Dean’s whim. If this is the reward for so small a scuffle, what would be the glory of something greater—

“I knew I shouldn’t have said anything,” Sam jokes as he claps his hand on Dean’s shoulder and squeezes. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

The brothers laugh and turn their minds from the battlefield and death to talk of sweeter things, though not a moment does Dean’s mind stray from plotting out his next chance to fight.

~ ~ ~

Dean continues to see his glory rise as he is allowed more battles. The sacrifices, the prayers, the prestige, they pile up and leave him honored even among the other war gods. He is favored by many mortals, his name invoked for all manner of battles, everything from war among nations to children’s bouts of swordplay.

Drunk on his newfound renown, Dean answers all calls, no matter how small, and relishes each success. He is too young, too new to this type of fame for him to be moderate in his actions or stingy in his attention. His name is revered, and it his childhood dream come to pass.

Though the mortals call much of his attention, he continues to devote time to his own training. A warrior’s journey is never complete, not until he meets his final end, and there is still much strength left for Dean’s body to gain. He endures daily battles with other gods, does training exercises under Bobby’s watchingful eye. No matter how much he enjoys fighting with and against the mortals down below, he knows the only true test of his strength is among his own kind.

None yet have beaten him, not for more than a match, but it is the closest Dean gets to a true contest of his abilities.

~ ~ ~

When he visits Sam, the dead gather at a respectful distance to whisper and watch. Dean is beyond pleased, especially as the numbers swell each time; Sam is amused though slightly aggravated by the crowds that follow them, denying him even the semblance of privacy with his brother.

Dean would have it no other way, of course, and Sam resigns himself to teasing his brother for it instead.

On one such visit, Sam tells him strange news he’s heard from the latest dead. The dead chatter wordlessly around them, some eager to deliver the news themselves but not daring to venture closer.

“Wrestling matches?” Dean repeats skeptically. “What do I care of wrestling matches?”

Wrestling matches are common across the world, both for sport and to settle bets or grievances. The match always goes to the strongest and generally to the biggest combatant… but Sam insists the tide is changing.

“The dead whisper. More and more, the winners are using speed and agility to best their opponent. Even a small, skinny man stands a chance of winning if he uses his assets to his advantage.”

Dean is intrigued but scoffs at the very notion. “Perhaps among children,” he says dismissively. “A large, stupid boy might on occasion lose, but surely a grown man can handle himself—”

“The dead don’t normally speak so seriously of children’s games,” Sam points out. “I’m not saying it’s true, either. But it is what they say.”

It’s an interesting thought, but one that doesn’t capture Dean’s notice for long. There are wars coming that need his attention, and strange wrestling matches aren’t his concern.

~ ~ ~

Not long after, Dean notices a startling trend. Some of his favorites start to lose their battles. He thinks nothing of it… until he realizes they aren’t losing to greater armies with larger numbers; they’re being defeated by better tactics bordering on trickery.

Dean’s furious, and by that fury alone he nearly demolishes one of the armies whose only offense was winning against his beloved people of Lawrence… but admittedly, deep down, he’s impressed. Bigger and stronger should always win. Better equipment, more swords and horses and men… it’s simple math, isn’t it? If someone’s cheating the odds, well, he’ll acknowledge that’s quite the feat and simply wait for their fortunate turn of luck to sour. The natural course of things will restore itself.

His confidence wavers when he learns of a new type of warfare he’s never encountered or even dreamed of before: a war of attrition.

Give him a target and he’ll fight. This? This will not do.

By no means patient, Dean goes undercover among other armies to learn what god fuels their victories. He’s convinced no man can be so clever, no man can be so lucky; a god must be at work.

It takes some time, but he finally learns a name, one he has not heard in a great many years.

Castiel.

~ ~ ~

He can’t place the emotions he feels, for he feels too many all at once: anger, bewilderment, disbelief, embarrassment, frustration. Finally he settles on one he knows how to handle: anger.

“Castiel!” he shouts when he finds the other god. Castiel is much grown from the last time they met, taller and of broad shoulders, tan and fit and more muscular than he would have expected. He is indeed handsome, as if Dean’s memories had ever doubted that, but he refuses to let such things distract him. “You’ve been meddling in my affairs.”

Castiel looks up from his book, his eyes flashing in confusion until he recognizes Dean. Then, to Dean’s annoyance, there’s a hint of smugness there.

“Dean,” Castiel says with a nod of acknowledgement. “It’s good to see you—”

“Don’t,” he snaps back. “You know why I’m here.”

Castiel inclines his head slightly. “You’re upset about the losses your underlings have experienced.”

“Would you not be?” Dean counters.

Castiel shrugs. “Can’t win them all.”

“Can’t— can’t win them—” Fury chokes him. Until Castiel had meddled in his affairs, he _had_ won them all. He needs to knock this rival down a peg, show him what a _real_ god of war can do and teach him that he cannot merely play at fighting and walk away unpunished.

“Care to see who would win one on one on the battlefield?” Dean smiles widely and gestures toward the lonely fields were the gods fight for their own amusement.

“You’re challenging me?” Castiel says each word slowly, like he’s unsure he’s made the correct assumption. “To a fight?”

“I know you’re a little scrawny, but surely you can hold a spear.”

Castiel appraises him for a moment. More than anything else in his life, Dean feels rendered to pieces; Castiel gazes at his very core, then nods and stands, liking what he finds. “Very well. Let’s fight.”

Dean imagines how gracious he’ll be when he defeats Castiel. He will offer a hand to help him up, he will drink and dine with Castiel and tell him where his mistakes were, and then he will accept Castiel’s solemn apology for thinking he knew things he clearly does not.

Dean’s fantasies are given life for all of five minutes, then they are dashed to pieces.

He doesn’t win. Not at all. Castiel defeats him, and _easily_ at that. At no point does he even need to injure Dean, merely disarms him at an opportune moment and knocks him down.

Instead of tasting victory, Dean finds himself looking up at the razor sharp tip of Castiel’s dagger. For the first time since he was a boy, Dean’s forced to yield.

"Given your reputation,” Castiel says as he removes the dagger and offers Dean a hand, “I thought you'd be better."

It is too much. The jest is intended as nothing more than that, but shame and rage make it impossible for Dean to react any better than he does. He pushes Castiel’s hand away and stands on his own.

“Even a fool is lucky on occasion,” Dean spits. “I wouldn’t expect it to happen again.”

Castiel, sensing Dean’s foul mood, is no longer smiles and politeness. He’s offended, as he should be, and he mirrors Dean’s scowl.

“I think it’s easy to see there’s only one fool here, and since luck did not favor you today, I’m not sure why you think it will the next time.”

Heat colors Dean’s cheeks. “The next time? The next time I’ll be prepared for your trickery and won’t let it undermine my skill.”

“We’ll see,” is all Castiel says before he walks away, an unspoken acceptance of a future challenge there between them.

The next day, Dean challenges him again. Every day for a week, and Dean wins only three in four matches. Better than his start, but by no means the rousing victory he’d anticipated. Luckily, his temper gives way after he begins to win; Dean’s admiration for Castiel’s abilities and his endless patience with Dean endear the other god to him more than before. He starts to view this as a challenge instead of an affront to all he stands for, and it makes the duals all the more fun.

It becomes their new routine. Their armies battle on earth, an almost dead tie as the victories even out, then they battle each other on the immortal plane. Dean pretends he doesn’t keep count, but he does. He does not lose every match, but he can’t help but notice he loses more than he wins. It infuriates him.

(And turns him on, much to his eternal mortification.)

The other gods joke about the duel, make bets on it every day. Dean knows this, even suspects Sam has bet for or against him at some point; he’s too scared to ask what the odds are. Enough is enough, though. He’s tired of losing.

It takes a great deal to swallow his pride, but he sees no other choice.

“Castiel,” he says through grit teeth. The other god looks resigned to another challenge, is already reaching for his armor. “I have a favor to ask.”

Castiel eyes him warily. “What might that be?”

“I—I—” It takes a great deal of effort to force the words out, but once they come he feels more at ease, more sure of this course. “How do you do it? Will you show me? Teach me?”

Castiel is stunned into silence, but slowly a shy smile lights up his face. “Of course I can, Dean,” he says more gently than a warrior should be able to; it makes Dean shiver.

Despite his initial surprise, Castiel is obviously pleased to share all he knows. It’s evident in how quickly he speaks as he demonstrates his theories and stratagems. He talks a great deal and uses games like chess to teach where words are not enough. Dean rolls his eyes at this, thinks this is Cas dismissing him and hoarding his secrets. If it weren’t for the excited gleam in Castiel’s eyes, one that so painfully reminds him of his childhood, he would walk away from the whole endeavour.

As it is, he gives in and allows Castiel to play the games with him. He tries not to enjoy the attention too much.

Slowly, Dean starts to see the connection between game and battle. He applies it when he fights on the mortal plane and in his daily contests versus Castiel. To his surprise (and delight), they work. Battles he’d previous lost now turn his way, by only a slight change to his battle plans.

Castiel notices the change and he too adjusts. As Dean gets better at incorporating Castiel’s methods, Castiel makes the bouts harder.

Almost like he was playing with Dean all along, humoring him until he was a true opponent.

No longer angered but such a thought, Dean’s determined to rise to the challenge.

Dean plays the games Castiel teaches him in his spare time. With Castiel, with Bobby, with Sam. He teaches them to the generals under his care and demands they learn to use such tricks to their advantage, since their enemies surely will. And then, because Dean wants to win a victory that actually counts, he starts teaching Castiel as well.

He teaches Castiel better footwork, how to properly hold his shield to parry blows as well as deliver them, how best to land a killing blow with a javelin. Both thrive under the arrangement, and Dean feels that old fondness for Castiel not only rekindle but grow with each passing day.

Even if he should beat Castiel in battle, he’s starting to think the other god will win in capturing Dean’s heart.

~ ~ ~

“You’re doing much better,” Castiel praises after he’s thoroughly beaten in a fight. “I would’ve never thought you’d use the sand to blind me.”

“It felt dirty,” Dean admits. “But after I saw how well you were doing with your swordwork, I knew I wouldn’t be able to disarm you otherwise.”

Castiel smiles. “Honor isn’t necessarily in the tactics, it’s in the treatment of the loser. We fight for many reasons, but how we act in victory is what brings us honor. What’s the point in a ‘fair fight’ if you lose to someone who would only do evil?”

Dean has to bite back a smile. More than anything, he likes to win, but a sense of honor and fairness was instilled into him along the way. Working with Castiel has expanded how he approaches fighting.

Honestly, Castiel’s “ends justify the means” talk is almost adorable and totally befitting a god who fights because he enjoys the challenge of plotting victory.

It does not escape Dean that he thinks Castiel not only a good warrior and strategist, but also “adorable.”

~ ~ ~

One day they’re fighting in the gods’ realm. It should be no different than any other day, but Dean feels in his gut that it _is_. It is _very_ different.

After hours of battle, Dean’s drenched in sweat and exhausted. Their fights never go on so long. Either he overpowers Castiel or Castiel outmaneuvers him and it’s over. Today the air is charged with electric energy, and no matter how much force or what tactics they employ, the match remains even. It could go on forever, unless one yields.

They both know neither will.

It’s only by chance that Dean pins Castiel. Castiel’s foot lands on uneven footing and he stumbles. Not much, but with his balance thrown Dean sees an opportunity and takes it. He lunges and tackles Castiel to the ground. Their weapons are knocked aside and they roll in the dirt until Dean manages to get the better positioning.

It takes a great deal of muscle, but he uses his body to hold Castiel in place, his hands firmly wrapped around Castiel’s wrists. Castiel is pinned, completely trapped, but so is Dean; if he relaxes for even a second, Castiel will escape. They’re stuck, unless Castiel admits defeat.

Dean glares down at the other god. As expected, he sees no sign of Castiel giving in; the other god will bide his time for days on end if need be, but surrender is not an option.

But then Dean catches sight of something else, something far less expected. What he _does_ see startles him; the blue of Castiel’s eyes has faded nearly to black, their gaze focused on Dean’s lips, his breathing coming out in deep pants.

Oh.

Dean’s not sure how to react, what to do. He’s known for some time his own thoughts and feelings, but he never dreamed…

It’s lucky that his body, at the very least, _does_ know how to react. It’s only by instinct that he leans down, wanting to taste—

No victory has ever tasted so sweet.

~ ~ ~

No longer is there a daily bout between Dean and Castiel. If only; the other gods would welcome it. Not for the show of skill, though that too would be an impressive sight ot be seen. Rather, they wish it for their own sakes, for no longer do Dean and Castiel content themselves with fighting each other. No, the present reality is far worse.

They are a team. Two like minds that work in unison to battle in the realms of mortals and immortals alike. Together they cannot be bested, no matter how the other gods might contrive to beat them. They are a perfect match, brawn and brains working in harmony, a duo unsurpassed.

They are partners, lovers, and kindred spirits, and worlds tremble before them.

(That is not to say there are no more singular battles between the two… they merely confine those to the bedroom.)

 


End file.
